


Olfactory

by gxlden



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 20th Century, Canon Universe, Drabble, Fluff, Irresponsible Duck Feeding, M/M, One Shot, don’t feed bread to ducks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-01 19:49:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20263576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gxlden/pseuds/gxlden
Summary: A bench in St. James’s Park, a few ducks, and two bodies positioned side by side. Fresh air, some bread crumbs, and the scent of an ethereal being riding on the wind. It’s a smell that inspires a sense of place, an evocative sense of belonging and familiarity that remains strong and unchanged for years to come.





	Olfactory

St. James’s Park, London, 1930’s

Dublin is over and done with, but Hell will soon be footing the bill to send Crowley to Turkey to tempt an assembly spokesman into a number of untoward activities. Namely, genocide, which Crowley knows is disconcertingly easier than it sounds.  


Aziraphale tells him, “I’m afraid I’ll be unable to assist you this time,” as he throws a handful of bread crumbs onto the lawn. “I’m to be shipping off to Toulouse on Monday.” Fires to extinguish, bridge-jumpers to talk down, priests and civil servants to commend and encourage, et cetera, et cetera. No rest for the... good.  


“You could be in and out before the end of the week,” Crowley insists. “I’ve heard the man’s a great big lout and a bit of an extremist; shouldn’t be too hard to convince him.”  


“If it’s so simple, then what do you want an angel’s help for?” Aziraphale says, without a trace of malice or spite. Maybe just a hint of mild, innocent ribbing. “I can’t imagine you having such a hard time of it on your own; you were responsible for earth’s original sin, after all.”  


Why does he have to bring it up so often?  


Crowley scowls behind his newest pair of sunglasses. He was only following orders, you know. His penchant for mischief made him a perfect candidate to stir up trouble. But how much trouble could one really get into in an idyllic and luxuriant garden with only two people? He did the only thing he could think of; he didn’t know he was going to be credited with the moral decent of mankind.  


“I’ve got tickets to the cinema tomorrow,” he explains, shifting to take up even more space on the bench, arms and legs spread across the metalwork. “And I thought you might enjoy a little trip. I’ve heard the Turkish delights are to die for.”  


What an adorable little temptation. Yes, the desserts are rather delightful, and Aziraphale would love to see the Hagia Sophia again, which he hasn’t gotten to visit once since he watched them lay the final tile in their mosaics some fourteen hundred years ago, but he can’t afford to dawdle so close to an actual assignment.  


“Some other time, my dear,” he says jovially, thinking about croquembouche, croquants, clafoutis... desserts he’ll soon be enjoying that Crowley can’t care to correctly pronounce.  
“I’ll hold you to that.”  


Thanks to the Arrangement, they see each other with regular frequency, but it’s also been years since they’ve surprised one other and found themselves in the same destination, enjoying oysters and champagne together in a foreign land, although nothing feels very foreign anymore after six thousand years. The spontaneous meetings stopped centuries ago; they have predetermined locales and specific channels of communication now. There’s no novelty, no surprises. They haven’t vacationed together in decades.  


“Of course,” Aziraphale says, agreeing. This time, he has to let his own work come first. “Next time.” They’ve got hundreds of years to explore together.  


The reason for their current meeting has been fulfilled, but neither angel nor demon makes a move to leave. With their business done, they’re free to simply exist in one another’s presence. Free to be, dare they think it, friends. They sit in a comfortable silence and Aziraphale duck-watches while Crowley people-watches.  


Aziraphale throws out his penultimate handful of food and Crowley stretches an arm out on the bench behind him. Before he can upend the little sack he had been feeding from, dumping the rest of the rye on the grass for the truly peckish peckers, Aziraphale feels a tingle on his neck and realizes with a start that it’s Crowley’s fingers, touching him, lacing lazily through his hair.  


“Crowley, what are you doing?”  


“I’ve long wondered what your hair felt like, you know. It’s always looked so soft and... airy, maybe? Like I could just run my fingers through it — like this.”  


“I, well —“ That’s sort of a compliment, right? Aziraphale accepts it and a modest flame of pride flickers in response to the sentiment; he squirms, pulling himself up to sit just a little straighter as Crowley delves a little deeper into his curls. “I do hope it does not disappoint.”  


“Course not.” Its actually more coarse than Crowley had expected, but there’s no need to mention that to him now seeing how he looks rather happy with a demon’s fingers tangled in his hair. “Now, what’s it smell like?”  


“Smell like? Wait, you can’t mean to—“  


And then Crowley’s nose is pressed to his temple, inhaling his sideburn with a comically exaggerated sniff. Aziraphale tries to laugh about it, but all he can manage is a dry chuckle, his breath caught in his throat. If he were human, he probably would’ve keeled over with how fast his heart is beating. The archangels would be appalled at this scene, incensed as they watch the demon readjust, burying his face in the shadow of Aziraphale’s neck, his nose relocated to an uncomfortably intimate spot just behind his right ear. Breathing in through the diaphanous golden hairs, then exhaling warmth that only adds to the shivers and chills running through Aziraphale’s body.  


“Crowley, I—“  


“You smell like an angel,” the demon declares, unimpressed and with very little fanfare. Clinical and clean with a pleasantly subtle tang like standing in an citrus grove, he remembers that smell from heaven. It’s markedly better than the musty stench of Hell but he hates how it drowns out the scent of old books and soap and tea leaves — everything that is unique to the corporeal form Aziraphale inhabits. The smell of heaven nearly wipes it all clean.  


“That would only make sense,” Aziraphale says, speaking to a line of red hair and sinewy neck, since Crowley’s face is still buried in his neck. “Really, Crowley. What’s next — tasting it?”  


“It’s hair, angel, don’t be silly.”  


“Ah.” A relieved chuckle, and Aziraphale relaxes. “Yes, of course not.”  


Crowley’s smiling, nearly leering. His fingers are still swirling in Aziraphale’s hair, tickling the base of his scalp. “I’m far more interested in what your skin tastes like, you know.”  


Now the implication of that, coupled with the evil grin Aziraphale can practically feel spreading across Crowley’s face, does put him a little on edge. Heat in his stomach, nerves tensed in his limbs, Aziraphale, suddenly flustered, scrambles for something to say.  


“Wait. Now, Crowley, be reasonable. We’re in a public place, and, and, I don’t think my side would take too kindly to us—to you...” he can’t bring himself to say what’s next, not even sure what comes next.  


“Oh, relax, angel. I’m only joking.” Half-joking, at least. Crowley pulls his hand out of Aziraphale’s hair. “I’m not going to eat you or anything.” That’s not really what he intended, but he admits the alternative is not necessarily any better. It would be a strange thing, as taboo as could be — a demon running his tongue along the softness of an angel’s neck in broad daylight to taste divinity and righteousness and whatever else angels are made of these days.  


But then again, Crowley has never really shied away from anything taboo or unorthodox.  


“Then just what do you think you’re doing?” Aziraphale asks, a dry cracked set of lips suddenly pressed to the side of his neck.  


Crowley doesn’t answer right away, of course, seeing as he’s busy running his closed mouth along Aziraphale’s throat as if he’s searching for his pulse, which has all but stopped. It burns his lips a little, more a pleasant tingle than a singing scream. There’s a certain pursing of the lips that lends itself to a kiss more so than a touch, and Crowley’s not sure what that angle and degree is, so he keeps his lips tight, though he really does want to open his mouth and experience him more.  


“Crowley.”  


“Hmm.”  


When he pulls back and flicks his tongue over his lips, he can taste him. Ambrosia. His cologne. Acceptance.  


Aziraphale straightens his bow tie, clears his throat. Crowley drapes himself over the far end of the bench, as if nothing ever happened.  


“You once told me snakes smell with their tongues.”  


“Yeah.” Neither one of them knows where he’s going with this. “What, were you expecting me to lick you this whole time?”  


Aziraphale shrugs his answer, reluctant to say yes out loud. “I’m somewhat surprised you didn’t.”  


“We’re in public, angel,” Crowley tuts. “And I don’t think your side — well, either of our sides — would take too kindly to such... displays.”  


“I suppose I should thank you for that.”  


“Don’t mention it.” Crowley digs into the pocket of his jacket and sighs. “Here. I doubt I’ll be back in time for the screening. No use letting the seats go to waste.”  


“I suppose I should thank you for these too, then.”  


Crowley shrugs and watches a nearby mallard try valiantly to drown another duck, violently pulling at the feathers on the back of its neck. “Don’t mention it.”

**Author's Note:**

> “I know what you smell like” is probably my favorite line from the story and I just wanted to indulge in the idea of Crowley straight-up smelling Aziraphale


End file.
